


A Remarkable Resemblance

by idelthoughts



Series: Tumblr Ask Box Fic [10]
Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Doppelganger, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3806716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The intensely personal way in which Henry said that name--<i>James</i>, like it really meant something--a simple brush-off of mistaken identity didn’t feel like it would cut it here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Remarkable Resemblance

Andrew shaded the glass from the sun’s glare and peered in the antique shop window.  There wasn’t anything quite as soothing after a breakup as blowing a bunch of cash.  Given all the gaping holes left when Matthew moved out, a bit of new furniture wouldn’t go amiss.  Maybe it was time to add a bit of class to his apartment—Matt’s IKEA crap hadn’t done much for the decor, and Andrew had always liked the heavier, classic lines of older stuff.    
  
Not that Andrew really knew anything about it.  He was firmly in the _yogurt has more culture than I do_ category.  But hey, fake it ’til you make it—and that couch in the shop was a good start.  
  
Andrew rounded the corner to the door when he nearly ran face-first into a man coming around the opposite direction, absent-mindedly focused on a pocket watch in his hand and headed for the same door as Andrew.  Only at the last minute did he pull up with a soft, “Pardon, excuse me.”  
  
“No problem,” Andrew said.  
  
The man’s eyes snapped up, his expression morphing into visible shock, the watch still cradled in his hand.  
  
“My god.  James?”  the man said.  
  
“Uh, no.”  Andrew paused awkwardly, because there was something intensely personal in the way he said it, and a simple brush-off of mistaken identity didn’t feel like it would cut it here.  “Andrew.  Andrew Poulin.”  
  
“Ah.  Yes, yes—sorry, I—“  the man stuttered his way through an awkward apology before shaking his head and tucking away the watch into his trouser pocket.  He stuck out his hand, offering a charming smile.  “Sorry, remarkable resemblance.  Henry.  Henry Morgan.”  
  
“Nice to meet you.”  Andrew shook his hand, and the handshake lingered a little too much to be completely casual, the eye contact a little too long for an exchange between strangers.  Henry finally dropped his hand.  
  
“Well.  A pleasure, Andrew.  Good day.”  
  
“You too.”  
  
That would have been the end of it if they both hadn’t turned towards the shop and taken a matched step towards the door.  Henry stopped at the same time as Andrew, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.  
  
“I guess antiques are popular today.”  It was a lame joke, but Henry laughed anyway.  The guy was friendly—attractive too, come to think of it.  Nice suit, great hair that caught the fall sunshine and lit up with streaks of gold—and what Andrew wouldn’t give to make his own out-of-control curls behave so well—and a hell of a smile.    
  
“Actually, I’m one of the shop owners,”  Henry said, waving a hand towards the door.  “Please, after you.  Perhaps I can help you with something?”  
  
Andrew took the offer, a little flustered, but willing to roll with it.  The bell above the door jingled merrily and the smell of furniture polish and dust hit him, the dark and rich colours of the shop immediately wrapping around him like he’d stepped into the drawing room of a period piece movie set come to life.  Yeah, this is what he wanted—this sense of history, of meaning.  If he could bring something like this into his apartment, maybe he’d feel a little less like all his history had been stolen away when Matthew dumped him without warning on a Friday, and been packed up and gone by that Sunday night.  
  
The old guy in the shop came to greet them, holding out his hand and grabbing Andrew’s firmly.  
  
“Hi there!  This a friend of yours, Henry?”  
  
“No no, a customer.  We, er, ran into each other outside.  Andrew, meet Abe, my business partner.”  
  
Andrew shook hands with Abe, who looked a little more like he’d expect an antiques dealer to look—unlike Henry, who looked more like a prop that should be seated in the corner in one of the ornate armchairs, sipping from the silver tea set on display rather than actually running the place.  Probably it was the accent.  British guys were either villains or dressed in cravats and riding jackets, longing silently for some pouffy-dressed object of their affection.  
  
In the course of the next fifteen minutes Andrew picked up more knowledge about furniture from the 19th century than he thought could possibly exist, had a really excellent cup of coffee thrust into his hands, and before he knew it was arranging for a couch and two matching chairs to be delivered to his house.  He felt like he’d barely turned around before he was parted from a lot more money than he should be spending.  
  
What the hell, retail therapy, right?  The real kind of therapy would probably cost him more, and he’d get less out of it.  At least here he was getting the flattering ego boost of Henry’s attention.  Lots of hands on his back guiding him around to show him various pieces, telling him stories about where it had come from, the significance of various bits of brocade, or finish, or types of wood.  Not that he’d taken it all in—Henry talked an awful lot.  Fortunately he was pretty and sounded nice, so it wasn’t a trial.  
  
Abe disappeared off to call some movers, and Andrew swallowed down the last dregs of his coffee.  Henry took the cup from him.    
  
“Thanks for the help,” Andrew said, indicating the furniture.  
  
“A pleasure.”  
  
Henry’s tongue wet his lips as he eyed Andrew, toying with the empty cup’s handle.  This should have been the goodbye point, but it was hard to tear himself away.  The last time someone had looked at him like that, it had been at a club—it had ended up with going home together, then moving in together, then suddenly it was three years later and here he was shopping for furniture.  All because Andrew was a sucker for bedroom eyes and emotionally unavailable men.  
  
Other things that were solid therapy post-breakup:  rebounds.  
  
“I don’t suppose you’d, uh, like to grab coffee sometime.”    
  
Henry was silent long enough that Andrew mentally winced.  Maybe he wasn’t into guys.  But Andrew had a good track record, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t wrong, which meant Henry merely wasn’t interested.  Which theoretically was fine, because it wouldn’t be the first time he’d ever been shot down, but right now it was an embarrassing experience he could do without.  He’d had enough rejection lately to last him a long, long while.  
  
“That would be lovely,”  Henry said.  
  
Henry offered his hand and Andrew took it, his thoughts switching gears abruptly from disappointment to pleasant surprise—and then soaring off in another direction entirely when Henry’s thumb slid over the back of his hand in a blatant move.  It took a good few seconds before either of them let go, and Andrew was already considering whether or not the old guy was far enough away for them to find a private nook somewhere and explore the possibilities a little further.  Henry seemed to catch onto his thoughts and grinned.  
  
“Sure.  Great, I mean.  Here’s my card.”  Andrew fumbled in his pocket for his business card—a bit pretentious, but whatever.  Pretty standard, and Henry seemed formal enough not to take it as posturing or anything.  “Give me a call, we can work something out.”  
  
“I will, thank you.”    
  
Henry nodded, and by the way his gaze stuck on Andrew, he was pretty sure he meant it, too.  Not bad—an actual date.  Maybe this was positive progress in his life.  
  
“Okay then.”  
  
With an awkward goodbye Andrew left the store.  A last peek in the window showed Henry looking at his business card with an absorption it didn’t deserve.  
  
It wasn’t until two blocks onward and trotting down into the subway, mulling over the interaction, that Andrew remembered the intensity of Henry’s reaction on first seeing him.  It sounded like Henry thought he was seeing someone important.  Really important.  Maybe Andrew wasn’t the only one on the rebound here.    
  
Well, there were worse things than being someone else’s bandaid. 


End file.
